Beyond the Sunrise (32 page)

“I had to make him follow me here,” she said. “I thought it would be easy. I thought he would catch up to us early, and I thought I would have my musket and my knife. But when he did come, I had no weapon and you tied my hands. But he did come eventually, and justice has been done. A measure of justice. There were those other men too, but I do not care about them. Only him. For he was their leader and honor-bound to uphold decency. I am not sorry I killed him, Robert, even though I know that the horror of having killed someone will live with me for a long time; I am not sorry. He deserved to die—and at my hands.”

“Yes,” he said. “He deserved to die.”

He heard her at his side trying to bring her own breathing under control. “You believe me?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, his voice dull. “I believe you.”

“You will forgive me, then?” Her voice was still toneless.

“No.” He tried to fight her story from his mind. “I might have helped you, Joana. But you were having too much fun making a fool of me. Men are only idiots to you, not people. I don't believe you could resist trying to enslave a man if you tried. I have no interest in being any woman's slave.”

Her forehead pressed harder against his shoulder. “It was partly your fault,” she said. “I told you the truth but you would not believe me. It has never been in my nature to beg and plead. If you would not believe me, then you would not. But I could not resist keeping you always guessing. I was teasing you, Robert, not trying to enslave you.”

“Well,” he said, “I cannot see much difference, I'm afraid, Joana. I'm sorry about your family. And I'm glad that you have avenged them at last, though how you did not lose your life in the attempt, I
will never know. Don't you know that it is sheer suicide to stand up in the skirmish line?”

“No,” she said. “I know nothing about skirmish lines except that you fight in one and this morning I thought I would die until I came over that hill and saw that you were still alive. But I will not keep you awake. If you will not forgive me, then so be it. I will not beg or grovel. Don't ask it of me, Robert. It is not in my nature to do so.”

She turned her back on him and wriggled into a comfortable position—leaving him still rigid with tension and now furiously angry as well.

“Oh, no, you don't,” he said, pushing one arm beneath her and rolling her to face him again. “You are not going to put me in the wrong like this, Joana, and then think you can turn away from me and sleep the night away in my tent. Why did you do it? Tell me that. To show your contempt for me and for all men?”

He heard her swallow in the darkness. “No,” she said. “I think it was to set a barrier between us, Robert. If you thought me your enemy, or if you were not quite sure, then there would be a barrier there.”

“Some barrier!” he said. “We have had each other almost every night and several days too since leaving Salamanca. Heaven help me if you had wanted no barriers.”

“There has always been a barrier,” she said. “With everyone. I have never wanted it otherwise. I have never wanted anyone close. Except you. And when we became close physically it was wonderful and I was happy—and terrified. I was afraid of what would happen if there were no barriers between us at all. I was afraid of losing myself, of never being in control of my life again. So I think that was what I was doing—keeping you at arm's length so to speak.”

“And all the others?” he said harshly. He wished he had not given in to anger and turned her to face him again. He wished he had not invited these words, which were weaving their lying web about him.

“The others?” she said. “You have always seen me as
promiscuous, have you not, Robert? I sleep with every man I smile at? I was with Luis six times. I counted and I hated every encounter a little worse than the one before it. And I have been with you I don't know how many times. I have not counted. And it has been wonderful, every encounter a little more wonderful than the one before, if that is possible. That is the extent of my experience, Robert. And now I wish I had not begun this speech, for of course you will not believe me. You will scorn me and throw all my other imaginary lovers in my face. Go to sleep. You must be tired.”

Her hair smelled dusty. Her skin smelled clean. She must have found somewhere to wash herself, as he had. He breathed in the warm scent of her.

“Joana,” he said, willing himself not to believe, wanting more than anything else to believe her. “Why? If your experience was so limited, why me? Why did you give in to me so easily?
You
made love to
me
that first time, I seem to remember.”

“Oh,” she said, “you will make me say it again, will you, and totally humiliate myself? I am not used to humiliation. Very well, then. I suppose I owe it to you. It was because I loved you, Robert. Maybe I fell in love with you when I first saw you in Lisbon, looking shabby and morose in the midst of a glittering ball, and looking hostile and determined to resist my charms and my invitation. Or maybe at that time I was only intrigued. Perhaps I fell in love with you at Obidos when you frightened me by taking away my control and I bit your tongue. Did I hurt you badly? I'll wager I did. Or perhaps then I was only fascinated by a man who did not dance to my tune as other men did. Perhaps . . . Oh, I don't know. Whenever it was, I fell in love with you, and I wanted you and decided to have you when the opportunity presented itself. But I wanted a barrier between us nevertheless. Love terrifies me.”

He said nothing for a few moments. “Goddamn you to hell, Joana,” he said at last.

“For loving you?” She laughed rather sadly. “I never expected to
love. Not once I was past the age of fifteen and knew that the world was not made up of knights in shining armor and damsels waiting to be carried off into the happily-ever-after on their chargers. It is ironic that I have done it with the one man who would rather see me in hell than in his tent. Or perhaps it is not ironic at all. I suppose I would never have fallen in love with you if you had not glowered at me in Lisbon. It was something quite new to my experience, to be glowered at.”

“I did not glower,” he said. “I was just damned uncomfortable.”

“Were you?” she said. “You did not show it. You looked as if you held everyone, and me in particular, in the utmost contempt.”

“You were beautiful and charming and expensive,” he said. “And I wanted you and hated myself for wanting someone so far beyond my grasp. If I felt contempt, it was against myself. As it has been ever since. I have always despised myself for loving you.”

“Robert.” Her breath was warm against his neck and her arm twined itself about it and her body came full against his. “Say that another way. Oh, please. And if you think I am begging and groveling, then you are right. I am. Say it another way.”

He licked dry lips and closed his eyes tightly and folded her in his arms as if he intended to break every bone in her body. “I love you,” he said. “There. Are you satisfied now?”

“Yes.” The single word against his neck.

He had not made love to her the night before. It was difficult to make love in a tent. It was small, easily toppled. Besides, there were people all about them, some also in tents, many more on the open ground. It felt almost like making love in public.

He lifted her dress carefully to her waist, eased himself free of his trousers, lifted himself on top of her, and put himself inside her. And she lay uncharacteristically still and quiet beneath him while he moved in her with slow care.

“I love you,” she murmured against his ear while he wondered if anyone could hear them coupling.

And God help him, he thought, burying his face against her hair and feeling release coming despite the caution with which he moved in her, but he believed her. He had to believe her. It was there in her body as well as in her voice. She held him silently cradled in her arms and in her body, giving. He knew she was nowhere near climax herself and would not reach it. But she was giving nevertheless, and telling him with words what she gave with her body.

Joana was giving. Not taking, but giving. Giving herself. And he was not imagining it. He would swear to God that he was not imagining it.

“I love you,” he told her against her mouth as he spilled himself into her. But he said worlds more than just the three words. And he knew as he relaxed down on her and her arms came about him and she kissed his cheek that she heard him, that she heard all the other words that could never be spoken.

There were no barriers. None at all.

I
T
was not morning. All was relatively quiet and still beyond the tent. And yet they must have slept for several hours. The night felt far advanced. But as often happened, they both woke together. She could tell that he was awake, that like her he had just awoken. She stretched against him, rather like a cat.

“I told you it gets more wonderful each time,” she said. “Tonight was no exception.”

“And I told you you could not stop lying if you tried,” he said. “Do you think I was so intent on my own pleasure that I did not know it was no good for you?”

“Because the universe did not shatter into a million pieces about me?” she said. “How little you know about women, Robert, or about me anyway. Sometimes it is wonderful beyond words just to feel what you do to my body, just simply to relax and enjoy. And this last time it was especially good because you told me that you love me and your body proved that the words were true. Say them again.” She reached up a hand to touch his mouth and sighed with contentment.

“They were a dream, Joana,” he said. “An unrealistic dream, just as they were that other time when we were children.”

She hated him suddenly. “But dreams can sometimes be more true than reality,” she said. “Let's dream for a little while longer. I love you, and that will be true even when reality takes over from dreams again and tears us apart. It will, won't it?”

“Yes,” he said. “But before it does—I do love you.”

She snuggled against him and closed her eyes. But it was impossible to recapture her mood of lazy contentment. “I am going to stay with you as long as I can,” she said, but there was a feeling of desperation in her already. “Will you be going all the way to Lisbon?”

“Probably not,” he said. “I don't know what is planned, but I would imagine that these lines of defense, though formidable, will not keep back the French without a little human help. I am sure I will be manning those defenses with my men.”

“Ah,” she said. But her mission was at an end. All of it—what she had done for Arthur and what she had done for herself. That latter had occupied her mind for three years. And now it was over, and in its place was a void, a certain feeling of anticlimax and dissatisfaction. He had something still to do. She had nothing.

His hand was stroking lightly through her hair. He kissed the top of her head. “And you?” he said. “What will you be doing?”

“Oh, I will go to Lisbon,” she said, “and dazzle all and sundry again. I shall return to my pure white. Don't you think that is a masterly touch, Robert? It becomes tedious sometimes, but I know it intrigues my admirers.”

“So you will stay in Lisbon,” he said. “That will be wise.”

Oh, wise, yes, and dull, dull, dull. “I may not stay there,” she said. “I think I will go to England. It has always been my dream to go there, to become English. You cannot know how tiresome it is, Robert, not quite to belong anywhere.” But she had a sudden memory of a boy who had lived at his father's house but had not been invited to join or even to meet his father's guests. “Ah, yes, perhaps you can too. I want to be English. I want to live in England and marry an English gentleman. I want to have English children.”

“Do you?” he said, kissing the top of her head again.

“Lord Wyman—Colonel Lord Wyman—has asked me more than once to marry him,” she said. “He is sure to ask again when I return to Lisbon. I think I may accept his offer. I think I may.”

“You love him?” he asked.

“Fool!” she said scornfully. “I love you, Robert. How can I love two men? He is rich and handsome and amiable and charming and a whole lot of other good things. He can offer me what I have always wanted.”

He said nothing, but merely turned his head to rest his cheek against the top of her head.

“I could not follow the drum,” she said. “There are too many uncertainties, too much moving from place to place, too many discomforts, too much danger and worry. I could not do it, Robert.”

“No,” he said. And very quietly, “I am not asking you to.”

His words stung. She had not realized how much she was hoping that he would do just that, until he spoke. She was dreaming of impossibilities as she had not done since she was a girl.

“I am very, very wealthy,” she said suddenly, though she knew how useless it was to try to fight against reality. “You would not believe how wealthy I am, Robert. I could buy property in England. We could live there together—”

“Joana,” he said. “No. I have made a career for myself in the army and this is where I stay for as long as I am needed. This is my life. This is what I like doing.”

She hated him for being so inflexibly the realist, for refusing to enter her world of make-believe for even a few moments. “It is more important to you than I am?” she said, but her hand shot up to cover his mouth again before he could reply. “What a stupid, stupid thing to say. Forget I said it. Of course this is where you belong. I would like you less if you could give in to the lure of wealth and comfort—and love. So of course we must part when we reach Torres Vedras. That is a fact of life. How long will it take? One week? Two? We will make them the most wonderful weeks of our lives, shall we, Robert?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Retreating with an army,” she said, “and sleeping and making
love in a tent each night. It would not sound much like heaven to anyone who was not you or I, would it?”

“We will make it heaven,” he said. “Why do you wear perfumes normally? You smell wonderful as you are.”

She chuckled. “I believe there would be a significant empty space about me if I appeared in a Lisbon ballroom smelling like this,” she said. “And I would hate that. Can we make love again, Robert? Would we wake everyone?”

“If we have only two weeks left, or perhaps not so long,” he said, “I think we had better perfect the art of making love without arousing the whole camp. Come on top of me.”

“I promise not to scream,” she said, bringing herself carefully astride him and hugging his hips with her knees and setting her hands on his shoulders as he mounted her and she felt the beginnings of pleasure even without full arousal.

And she began to memorize him—the feel of warm and slender hips against her inner thighs, the feel of strong hands spread on her hips, holding her steady for his upward thrusts, the feel of him in her, long and hard encased in her own wetness and softness, the feel of his muscled shoulders beneath her hands. She brought the upper part of her body down on him, feeling his shirt and chest muscles beneath her breasts. And she sought out his mouth, opening her own and fitting it to his, feeling the familiar inward push of his tongue.

She began to memorize him and knew that she was thereby destroying some of the pleasure. For loving was not something that could be calculated and hoarded. It was in the here and now, to be enjoyed here and now. It could not be stored up for future pleasure or for future pain.

She wanted to die, she thought suddenly, and the absurdity of the wish struck her. She wanted to die while she was still with him. She wanted to die now while his arms were about her and he was murmuring sweet nonsense into her mouth and while their bodies were still joined and they were about to relax, sated, into each other.

“Robert,” she whispered, “I wish I could die. Now. I wish I could die now.”

“We still have more than a week,” he said. “Perhaps two. An eternity, Joana. Now is all we ever have, and perhaps the next week or two. One learns that fast as a soldier. A day, a week, is a whole precious lifetime.”

“But I am not a soldier,” she said. “Ah.” She rested her forehead against his shoulder and closed her eyes. “That feels wonderful. Oh, yes, Robert. Oh, yes.”

He lifted her head and covered her mouth with his own so that she would not cry out. But she would not have done so. It was not ecstasy she was feeling as
he pulled her down hard onto him and held her while she felt the hot gush of his release. It was just the quiet force of love and union, far more powerful than even the wildest physical passion.

She turned her head against his shoulder and knew that they would both sleep again for the short remainder of the night. But she was memorizing him again, and there was sadness mingled in with the drowsy relaxation and feeling of physical well-being.

“Robert,” she said, “I will always love you. When you are eighty-two years old, know that there is an eighty-year-old woman somewhere who loves you. Isn't that a delightful thought to keep you going for the next fifty years or so?”

“You will probably still have a court of admirers,” he said, “and will not be interested in knowing that there is also an eighty-two-year-old man who loves you.”

She sighed. “I could sleep for a week,” she said. “I am so tired.”

“Sleep, then,” he said. “But not for a whole week, please, Joana.”

She found herself wondering, as they both drifted off to sleep again, why it was that time could not just be stopped. If one was enjoying a particular moment, why could one not make it last forever? Life was a stupid business, she thought. She could have done so much better if she had been God.

*   *   *

Marshal
Massena learned his lesson quickly. He had underestimated the size and strength of the allied forces and had attacked them in a position that gave them all the advantages. He would not attack again. Instead he looked for another way past to the heart of Portugal. And he found it in the mountains of the Sierra de Caramula to the north, where a rough track led to the coastal plain a few miles north of Coimbra.

Lord Wellington knew of the track and had sent orders for the Portuguese militia to defend it. But they were not quite equal to the task of holding back a whole army on the move. The French moved inexorably into Portugal.

And so the allied forces began the inevitable retreat to the grumblings and complainings of those who had thought their victory more decisive than it had been. The army felt defeat and despair as they marched south across the ridge of Bussaco and down onto the main road to Coimbra. They felt betrayed by a commander who was snatching defeat out of the jaws of victory.

The retreat began on the evening of September 28, the day following the battle. Most of the army moved out, leaving behind them a rear guard and many blazing fires so that the French who remained would not know that they had gone. They marched westward to Coimbra and south at last on the road to Lisbon.

Miraculously the autumn rains held off. Or perhaps it was not a good miracle either, for while the rains would undoubtedly have slowed them and made of their march a dreary business, it would have been worse for the French, who were following a rougher and more difficult route.

The riflemen formed part of the rear guard, sniping at the few French who followed at their heels, waiting always for the main body
of the army to catch up to them. But the forced marches did not allow for such a disaster.

The inhabitants of Coimbra, who had largely ignored the orders to follow Wellington's scorched-earth policy, realized too late the danger in which they were being placed, and were soon fleeing along the road to the south ahead of the army, loaded down with those possessions they could salvage, while their remaining possessions had to be left behind to be looted, possibly to burn. It was essential that the French continue to feel the full effect of their penetration into a virtual desert.

The Light Division were among the last to leave the old university town, much of which was burning. And it was there that Joana met her half-brother again. He had come there deliberately, he said, to find her, to see that she was safe. Carlota was with the baby up in the hills, he explained, much against her inclination.

“But she saw the wisdom of not bringing the baby here,” he said with a grin. “And where Miguel is, there Carlota has to be too for at least the next few months, whether she likes it or not.”

He hugged Joana and shook Captain Blake's hand before slapping him on the back.

“I heard about the fight,” he said. “Lucky devils. What I would not have given to be there. You had to stay close, Joana? You could not be persuaded to go back to safety?”

“Go back to safety?” Captain Blake said scornfully. “Joana? She actually came into the thick of the fighting. The shells and bullets could not kill me, but the sight of her waving my rifle almost did.” He set an arm about her shoulders.

Duarte smote his forehead with the heel of his hand. “My sister and my woman both,” he said. “Two of a kind.”

“Duarte,” she said, “I had to go into that battle. I had to kill him.”

“Him?” He looked at her, at first blankly and then with gradually widening eyes.

“I recognized him in Salamanca,” she said. “It was Colonel Marcel Leroux, the one who said he would kill you, the one I begged to
come after me. I had to kill him, Duarte, and I did—with Robert's rifle. I have never fired a rifle before, but I knew I would not miss. I could not miss. He was mine.”